I don’t think she was remotely interested in Caitlin, but the act of making me talk about her seemed to remind her of an aspect of herself that hadn’t been called into play until then. A look of sidelong amusement came on like a light in her eyes. She nodded occasionally as I talked, but didn’t offer any comment when I ­finished. A car went by below the balcony window, sizzling on the wet. Lights glittered in a distant, solitary tower block, as if signaling to us. It was still raining.

“Shall we move on to something stronger?” she asked as I trailed off into silence. “Whisky? A glass of wine?”

“Some wine would be nice.”

She took the tea things into the kitchen. From the back, sheathed in the soft fabric of her dress, she looked like a woman in her thirties. I found myself trying to decide what I thought of her: what I, in my older self, thought of her in hers. Julia as flight from nature, I’d written in those notes; abandonment of the old, animal, earthbound human archetype . . . Elsewhere: The world becomes clarified in her presence but also diminished, as if digitized, immolated in a cold fire . . . Was that “cold fire” still burning? If so, did it still exert any lingering fascination over me? I reminded myself I was there to investigate Marco’s story, not to revive some ancient plotline in my own. And yet the question asked itself: Was I still susceptible to her in any way? I wanted the answer to be yes. One doesn’t like to lose the capacity for enchantment.

She came back with the wine, and pulled her chair closer to mine, touching my glass with hers.

“I do remember you,” she said. “I remember hearing you play your electric guitar up in your room. Your parents used to groan whenever it came on, but I enjoyed it.” She leaned confidentially toward me. “In fact I sometimes wished I could go up there and hang out with you. I’m sure you’d have rolled me a nice fat joint if I asked.”

“I’m sure I would!”

She smiled.

“I seem to remember there was a Hendrix song you used to play rather beautifully . . .”

“Little Wing?”

“That’s right! One of my favorites!”

I was stunned. I thought I’d long ago raked over every last ember of memory having to do with my teenage crush on Julia, but somehow I’d forgotten the little sonic bouquets I used to send down the three flights of stairs from my bedroom whenever she arrived at our house. I’d taught myself the intricate fingering of that song specifically for the purpose of impressing her.

“You know, I met Noel Redding once,” she said. “I had a thing for musicians in those days. I’d never say no to a party where there was a chance of a real live rock star making an appearance.”